


unclothed you are true

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2009, F/M, Season: four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are you lonesome tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unclothed you are true

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted [here](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/151422.html).]

Ellen's not surprised when Dean knocks at her door. Got a warning call from Bobby half an hour ago. Smart guy, Bobby, Ellen's picked up a trick or two from him.

She stops the apology he's got ready on his lips with two fingers on his mouth, hugs him sideways.

"Took you long enough," she whispers when he lets him go, and he scrubs the back of his head, comes inside.

She's got warm stew ready on the table for him, fresh beer, spiked with holy water because she trusts Bobby, but he's thousands miles far and even he can't pick up demons through a phone.

They talk while he eats. Ellen does, actually and he listens, uncharacteristically silent, head half-turned toward the door, still fidgety and tense after whatever he's been doing tonight. She tells him about Jo and her rare calls, about her own job at the homeless centre. She's honest and forthcoming; she's never been the one keeping secrets.

"Still taking in strays?" he asks.

"Let you in my house, didn't I?"

He laughs and she does too, picks up one of her good bottles and two clean glasses while he puts his empty plate in the sink.

"I'm growing vegetables in the back yard, too," she says while she pours whiskey in one. She's made a life for herself, a good life. As far as she can from the hunting world. It doesn't mean she's clueless about what's going on, though.

He drinks his whiskey in a single gulp and he relaxes, finally, shoulders coming down from ear level. She pours him another one while she sips at hers.

"Where's Sam?" She struggles to keep her tone conversational, but damn, she has the right to know what he's bringing to her door and Sam not being here just isn't natural.

He shrugs. "He's got something to take care of."

"Dean…"

He blows air noisily through his nose. "Ellen, it's all right. A lot has changed since—" he waves his hand in the air like he's helpless to explain. "A lot has changed, but I wouldn't bring anything dangerous to your door." He stares at his glass for a while, his entire hand around it, fingertips scraped raw, half-moon of dirt lining his nails.

Ellen nods. "Okay," she says. She doesn't believe him, not about the dangerous part. His kind always brings danger with them and that's a lesson Ellen can't forget.

"Got a salt and burn down in Albuquerque, knew you lived close by."

"I'm glad you came," she says with a voice gone suddenly rough. She stops sipping at her glass and pours it down, loves the slow burn of it down to her nearly empty stomach. She's still being honest. She' glad he came.

Dean looks at her for a long moment, shadows so deep under his eyes that Ellen has the impression of seeing him age and wither before her eyes. A blink and it's gone, his baby face there again, pale and peppered with freckles. He frowns, like he's trying to figure something out and Ellen's heart starts beating fast.

All of sudden, he stands, scrape of the chair on the hardwood floor loud and grating in the thick silence. Two steps and he's at the window, his back turned to her and both hands against the glass pane. Ellen pours herself two more fingers of her good whiskey, drinks them down quickly before standing herself.

What's going to happen is inevitable, she knows it. She wants it.

His back tenses when she rests her hand between his shoulder blades, then he's turning, solid presence of his body that presses her against the wall.

"Ellen, God—"

She makes a shushing sound against his mouth, licks at his chapped lips, the taste of alcohol and beer still clinging there until she washes it away.

He unbuttons her shirt while she unbuckles his belt. "Tell me you got something," she says. He nods, there's some rustling and moving while Ellen focuses on getting to his cock. A moan gets ripped from her lips when she circles the length of him. He echoes her above the ripping sound of the condom's foil. Sharp smell of rubber and talc when he rolls it on himself.

Ellen sheds her jeans. The cloth of her panties is wet between her legs.

Dean's watching, jeans still clinging to his hips, chest bare and pale and heaving.

She hitches up her left leg to rest on the jut of his hipbone, guides him inside. He slides in the wetness of her, curls both his hands around her ass and all her weight is on his arms.

Ellen says, "C'mon, c'mon." Hopes the tilt of her head and the heat on her face is invitation enough. Everything's blurry now but Dean's face: sharp and moonlit, eyes bright even as he closes them tight as he thrusts inside her.

She buries her nose In the curve between his chin and shoulder. He smells of freshly overturned earth, of the wet mold of the cemetery he's spent half the night in. Her own skin smells of fresh soil, too, from the vegetable garden at the back of her house. She makes things grow; he keeps on turning ghosts to dust; fertilizer for the earth.

Ellen's back slides against the wall with the next thrust and she knows she'll be sore in the morning. She isn't as young as she used to be, but she's lightheaded at how easily he just holds her up, hands on her ass, forearms warm and slick with sweat on her thighs. She lets herself be held in a way she hasn't allowed in a long time, and for a moment his fair skin, the light on his hair is just right. It's a like a magic trick that makes her shiver, and she has to blink the illusion away.

"Table," she says, and it's thrilling how he just does what she asks. Shift of her body against his navel, his cock moving and pulsing inside her. He groans with the first step, draft of warm breath on her left ear. Ellen clings to his neck, fingers intertwined behind it. She presses her breasts against the hard wall of his breastbone, and lets herself be carried. She's so wet that his cock makes an obscene squishy sound when he puts her on the table, surprisingly gently, like she could break.

She won't. He should know that she's unbreakable, unyielding and indestructible, and doomed to be left behind. She pushes her heels above the curve of his ass, pushes his jeans lower until her feet touch skin, she pushes until he's all the way in and she can clench around him, hold him inside. Immobile.

One of the glasses on the table rolls and falls to the floor without breaking.

Dean's weight is breathtaking, painstakingly real. Ellen knows he could crush her. There, against her kitchen table, Dean could crush her, turn her to dust like the thousands of ghosts he's burned. And she's promised herself she'll never allow it again.

That's why she smiles large and inviting against his open mouth. She bites his lower lips and then laughs at his expression, surprised and knowing, as though he _really_ gets it. He smirks, tries to move, but Ellen tenses her leg muscles and hold him still. Delicious friction of his pubic bone against her clit, his coarse hair and hers. He worms his fingers between their legs, Ellen pushes his head down, moans at the wet trail his tongue leaves from neck to her left nipple. He stops there, panting humid breath against her nipple and finally she lets him go. Lets him fuck into her slow and steady until they're both sweaty and coming.

Surprisingly, it isn't awkward after. Ellen laughs at the way Dean tries to avoid looking at her as she dresses. She laughs and smacks his ass, makes him yelp and look younger, his own age, finally, for the first time since he knocked at her door.

"Tired?" Ellen asks.

"Hell, no!" Dean says with a hint of that familiar, frustrating sass.

Ellen kisses it away from his face. "I've got a bunk bed down the corridor," she says. "Last door on the left. In front of my bedroom."

She traces the line of his jaw with a nail "Usually when hunters like you come knocking for help, I close myself inside at night."

Dean nods. "That's good, Ellen," he says. "You shouldn't take in strays anymore."

Ellen wishes he'd shut up. " I won't turn the key tonight."

Dean leans on her hand, eyes closing briefly. He shakes his head. "Ellen, I—there's too much going on. Sam…"

"I know," Ellen says and just like that she turns away and leaves him in her kitchen.

That one choice isn't hers to make, she knows as much. But maybe he'll knock on her door, later, and she can't help the spike of her heartbeat at the thought. She doesn't want to sleep alone tonight. Not tonight.

\--


End file.
